


talking in circles

by dirtbagtrashcat



Category: Persona 5, Persona 5 Royal
Genre: Akechi's POV, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Fundraising, Jazz Club, Multi, P5R Spoilers, TV Studio, akeshu - Freeform, i love a liar who can see through everyone's bullshit except for his own, interrogation room, jazz jin, just a bunch of oneshots of two boys talking past each other, p5 spoilers, rank 1, rank 8, shuake, the boy is a snarled-up snake of repressed emotion, we open with sae-san kabedon bc why the hell not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:37:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24481354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtbagtrashcat/pseuds/dirtbagtrashcat
Summary: a series of shuake oneshots (based on reader-requested prompts!)prompt 1: a shuake christmas eve date2: the interrogation room3: the jazz club4: stuck in an elevator5: banter about music___It’s snowing. Akechi slouches across the alley to take shelter in the bathhouse across the street.Kurusu-kun took him here once, he muses, without sentiment. They sat side by side and slow-boiled like lobsters, and Akechi found himself telling Kurusu all his best-guarded secrets, every private treasure he had left. Damn Kurusu for being so -- so quiet, and so open, and so without judgment. Damn his big dark eyes and the way he blinked them slow, like a lizard, or a very trusting cat. Damn the way the heat painted his lean, muscular limbs with a flush as pink as sunrise.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 31
Kudos: 156





	1. merry christmas, kurusu-kun

**Author's Note:**

> [P5R SPOILERS ON THIS ONE] [but like... slightly canon divergent ones]
> 
> Prompt #1: a Shuake Christmas Eve date
> 
> This takes place immediately after you meet up with Sae on 12/24 and Akechi turns himself in! I actually wrote it as a kind of alternate ending to this chapter , so you can read that first if you wanna get the full flow! But you def don't need it to get what's going on.

Akechi’s only followed Sae about half a block before she whirls around and pins him to the wall, slamming one powerful fist into the brick beside his head (and nearly clipping his ear off in the process). Akechi blinks up at her, bemused.

“Why, Sae-san,” he says archly. “I never knew you felt this way.”

“What’s the game here, Akechi-kun?” she asks him brusquely, not taking the bait. “What’s your angle?”

“Perhaps I’m acting selfishly,” he suggests, keeping his expression neutral. “Going through the motions of remorse in order to secure a shorter sentence. Hmm? Is that not a sound hypothesis?”

“No,” she says flatly. “I know that you could disappear. I know about--” her mouth hardens. “Makoto told me everything," she spits. "About your connections, and your -- _abilities_.”

 _That_ stings. Akechi rolls the hurt of it into the back of his mouth and swallows it down like the bitter pill it is.

“And?” he says lightly. “Your point is?”

“My _point_ is, you have other ways of starting over. And you know what happens to kids like you, when you’re thrown on the mercy of the state. So what’s your angle?” she asks again, with a critical squint. “What are you planning?”

He stares at her defiantly for a moment, and then looks away.

“Kurusu-kun,” he starts to say, and then stops.

Even _Akechi_ doesn’t entirely understand why he’s doing this. Of course he could disappear. He’s done all the preparation a hundred times over; there are six different identities he could step into, without leaving a single ripple.

But.

But then Kurusu would go to prison.

Kurusu-kun, who treated him warmly when no living soul in this damnable world ever had. Kurusu-kun, who had never shied away from him, even when he knew full well what Akechi had in store for him. Akechi bared everything for him; he showed him the putrid, stinking rot that festered in the place where his heart should be, and Kurusu looked right at it, and he didn’t flinch, and he told him that it wasn’t too late. 

“What about Kurusu-kun?” Sae asks, sounding disoriented. Akechi looks up at her, ready to make some new excuse -- _I owe him a favor, and I hate to carry debts_ , or something like that -- but he should have taken an extra moment to prepare his mask. Whatever Sae sees in his face seems to rock her.

“Akechi-kun,” she says, sounding unusually sentimental, and Akechi feels his blood turn to ice.

“ _Do not pity me_ ,” he spits. “I -- do not misunderstand me, Sae-san, this is nothing more than business -- a professional courtesy for a--”

“Akechi-kun,” she says, in a firmer tone, and he stops short. “I’m going to do something very foolish,” she tells him, with a funny gleam in her eye. “Call it -- a _professional courtesy_.”

His decorous mask in shards on the floor, Akechi finds himself rolling his eyes. Sae nearly smiles.

“I’m going to give you one more night,” she says briskly, “as a free man. Why don’t you go see Kurusu-kun?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he tells her coldly. “It’s Christmas Eve. He’ll--”

“He doesn’t have plans,” she cuts in. “He’s -- mostly been _mourning_ , I think.”

Akechi gives her a glare that is half-derision, half-disorientation.

“Whoever does he have to--” he starts to ask, before realization clicks into place. He turns away before Sae can see him turn slightly pink.

“ _Fine_ ,” he hisses. “But it’s on your head if I use this opportunity to escape.”

“I can live with that,” she says placidly. To Akechi’s absolute, white-knuckled fury, she lays one hand on his shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Akechi-kun,” she says, her tone crisp and professional. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

##

He’ll escape, of course. Why had he ever thought of turning himself in in the first place? What kind of witless, self-righteous nonsense had spurred him to self-destruct for the sake of another? Now that he had the space to come to his senses, he’d be on the first bus out of town, and that would be that.

That was the plan, at least.

He was always so good at following plans, Akechi thinks grimly, glaring at the darkened front window of Leblanc. He followed each step to the letter. He never went off-book, and he certainly never fell victim to any -- any _mindlessly sentimental improvisation_.

What is he even supposed to do, now that he’s here? It’s not as though he has his phone on him. Did Sae expect him to throw rocks at Akira’s window until he let him in, like some sort of idiotic _teenager_?

It’s snowing. Akechi slouches across the alley to take shelter in the bathhouse across the street.

Kurusu-kun took him here once. They sat side by side and slow-boiled like lobsters, and Akechi found himself telling Kurusu all his best-guarded secrets, every private treasure he had left. _Damn_ Kurusu for being so -- so quiet, and so open, and so without judgment. Damn his big dark eyes and the way he blinked them slow, like a lizard, or a very trusting cat. Damn the way the heat painted his lean, muscular limbs with a flush as pink as sunrise.

Well, Akechi is finally drawing a line in the sand. Akira may have taken everything from him before now -- pried him open and plucked out Akechi’s putrid heart and held it gently between them, like it was precious -- but he won't get this. Akechi will _die_ before he’ll give Akira his last night of freedom.

Across the alleyway, something jingles.

“Akechi?” Akira asks numbly. Akechi freezes. His chest seizes, and his skin flares hot with -- fury? Fury, surely.

“Kurusu-kun,” he says, his tone flat. “Ah… Merry Christmas.”

“ _Akechi_?” Kurusu asks again, his dark eyes wide and disoriented. “You… What?”

He looks just as paralyzed as Akechi feels, if not more so. The sight of his rival’s helplessness emboldens him.

“What are _you_ doing out here?” he asks rudely, taking a step toward him. “It’s _Christmas Eve_ , you know. Don’t you have anyone to celebrate with?”

Bizarrely, Akechi’s hostility seem to brighten Kurusu’s mood.

“I had chicken,” he says dumbly. “With Futaba and Sojiro. But they went home already. Um… If you’re asking why I’m in the alley, it’s cause Sae texted me. She told me to go outside.”

 _Damn_ her. Sae-san was always too clever for Akechi’s own good.

“Well,” Akechi says icily. “Your story checks out. I, ah…" He sighs. "I suppose you’ll want to know what I’m doing here.”

“No,” Kurusu says simply.

“Well, I-- Excuse me?”

Kurusu’s eyes sparkle with mischief.

“Well,” he says. “Do you want to tell me?”

“Of course not,” Akechi tells him irritably. Kurusu’s smile broadens, crinkling his dark eyes into twin slits.

“Then it doesn’t matter,” he says. He looks like he actually means it. “It’s cold out here,” he observes, seeming to notice the snow for the first time. “Do you want to come in?”

He’s just as infuriating as ever. What is Akechi supposed to make of this? Does Kurusu _have_ to be so -- so damned inscrutable all the time?

“Fine,” Akechi says, fuming. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Kurusu nods to Akechi’s usual seat as they enter, and then pads quietly behind the counter, into the kitchen. Tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear, Akechi sits -- at the very edge of the seat, mind you -- and watches him work.

Kurusu’s cheeks are flushed just from a few short moments in the cold. Akechi can only imagine how _he_ must look: his mousey hair damp and frizzy, caked with little scabs of half-melted snow; his nose red and raw. When he notices Kurusu sneaking a peek at him he whirls, furious and defensive, only to find Kurusu watching him with such open, unabashed delight that Akechi feels nearly dizzied. It’s too much to hold -- he looks away, his breaths coming in shallow.

“What?” he asks flatly, staring at his knees. Kurusu smiles.

“I’m happy to see you,” he says. When he returns from the kitchen, he’s holding a plate full of curry with one cold, lonely chicken drumstick lodged in the center, like some kind of off-brand excalibur.

Kurusu leans forward as he deposits the plate in front of him -- further forward, Akechi thinks, than he really needs to. Kurusu’s fingers brush his own as the ceramic _clinks_ against the counter, and for a moment, Akechi can _smell_ him: coffee and sweat and salt.

“Merry Christmas, Akechi-kun,” Kurusu tells him, his face only inches from his. A bead of sweat slides down Akechi’s temple, but only because he forgot to take off his coat.

“Thank you, Kurusu-kun,” he says gruffly. “Ah… Merry Christmas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking reader-submitted prompts to encourage donations to BLM bail funds! Hit me up on twitter for details, @dirtbagtrashcat


	2. the interrogation room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Vanilla P5 spoilers]
> 
> In an interrogation room deep underground, Akechi assassinates the leader of the Phantom Thieves.

After everything, Akechi is finally going to win.

Everyone thinks Akira is _so_ much better than him. That mangy pack of Phantom Fools certainly thinks so -- he can see it in Sakomoto’s pathetic attempts at derision, and Nijima’s transparent distrust, and (worst of all) in the poorly veiled _pity_ he can sometimes see in Takamaki’s sideways glances. A gaudy, half-witted showhorse like Takamaki, pitying _him_? It’d make him laugh if it wasn’t so sad.

Even Akira thinks as much. Oh, he’d deny it, of course, but Akechi’s been in this business too long to be deceived by such an obvious pretense. He may have briefly indulged the prospect of taking Akira’s words at face value, but that was before he’d seen the boy’s ludicrous menagerie of Personas. Akechi knows all too well what _that_ means. You can’t have more than one Persona unless you’re a liar, right down to the core.

The guard outside the interrogation room is on Shido’s payroll, which makes this easy. Killing him is a public service -- an act of charity, really. Akechi’s cleaning up the police force, just like Sae-san once hoped to do, before she went all dominatrix robocop on them. She'd be awfully humiliated to learn just how easily Akechi can accomplish that which she failed to do. The thought of it gives him a warm, tingling feeling.

“Would you mind accompanying me?” he asks politely. “Going in unarmed to interrogate a murderer makes me uncomfortable.”

The guard nods. Akechi doesn’t see any recognition in his eyes. He must be pretty low on the food chain if he doesn’t know who _Akechi_ is. Ah, well. He’s about to get lower.

“What are you--” the guy sputters, just before Akechi puts a bullet in him. He doesn’t hesitate. He never hesitates. He’s killed before, in the Metaverse. Why should this feel any different?

( _Shadows disintegrate before they hit the ground. This man doesn’t disintegrate. He gurgles and sputters and chokes and the spittle that trickles from the corner of his mouth is red, all red and foamy, like sea spray, and Akechi can see blood seep into the whites of his dead eyes._ )

Akechi doesn’t have time to slow down. He needs to eliminate Akira _now_. He can’t hesitate. This is what he’s good for. If he can’t do _this_ , what was it all for? Everything he’s done would be for nothing.

“I owe you for all this,” he hears himself saying, to his consternation. “Thanks.”

Akira doesn’t respond. Akechi’s mouth tightens to a thin line. What, the great leader of the Phantom Thieves won’t _sully himself_ by engaging with a common criminal? Even now, Akira’s _still_ determined to prove himself the superior? It’s pathetic. More than pathetic, it’s _pointless_. Akechi’s already won.

"That's right," he continues, cruelly. "You and your little friends were vital to our plan. And now, it will be complete."

Akira stays silent. Akechi can see him in the corner of his eye, but he can’t make out his expression. Is he angry? Hurt? Humiliated? He should feel humiliated. _God_ , Akechi hopes he’s humiliated.

( _Then why won’t you look at him?_ asks one of the voices in his head. _You could see his humiliation if you looked at him._ )

Akechi’s lip curls into a snarl. Fine, then.

“Your popularity was quite stunning,” he observes lightly, turning to Akira ( _who is looking straight at him, unreadable even now, dark eyes betraying neither hurt nor rage nor even surprise -- only a sort of animal attention, bright and curious and without judgment_ ). “That just made using you all the more worthwhile.”

Akira’s expression doesn’t change. Akechi can feel hatred rise like bile in his gut, so furiously violent that it makes his gun hand shake. Usually Akechi’s anger is cold, but not today. Today it tears through his veins like fire, so hot and loud and bright that he can barely see through it, can barely fucking think straight. He bites his tongue till he tastes metal and raises his gun.

“Have you finally pieced it all together?” he drawls, cocking his head to one side.

( _You’re wasting time,_ the voice in his head tells him. _Why haven’t you killed him yet? Shido will be angry._ )

He’s just -- just waiting for a reaction, is all, and Akira still won’t give it to him. Why is he so set on ruining this for him? What does Akechi have to do to make him _angry_?

Akira should be _screaming_ at him. Akira should be spitting venom; should be telling Akechi that he’s a piece of shit, a worthless fucking orphan brat who’s too broken ever to be whole, too fucking useless and ugly and rotten even for this putrid stinking world. Akira should _spit_ at him; should remind him that he’ll never be loved, that nothing he does will ever make him important; that his efforts are meaningless, that when he dies he’ll be forgotten. Akira should tell him that it doesn’t even _matter_ if Akechi kills him, because Akira’s short life has already meant more than Akechi’s _ever_ will, even if he lives a thousand years. Akira should tell him that he’s _nothing_.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. Akechi doesn’t care what Akira thinks.

Akechi clicks the safety, and he smiles.

“Case closed,” he purrs, clenching his jaw and flexing his forearm to still its shaking. “This is where your justice ends.”

Akira stares up the barrel of the gun. His eyes are so wide that Akechi can see the whites all the way around them and bizarrely, for no reason in particular, Akechi remembers the first time he met Akira -- the first time Akira ever humiliated him. Akechi had approached with the intention of toying with him, batting him around like he did with everyone else; only instead of falling into his trap or flinching away, Akira had simply watched him, his eyes bright and curious. Akechi always shakes hands with his dominant hand, his left, because it throws people off their guard -- it unbalances them, making them that much easier to topple. But Akira wasn’t thrown off guard. Akira didn’t even look confused. He simply clasped Akechi’s hand in his own. Akechi held the handshake for a beat too long, to force Akira to pull away, only Akira didn’t pull away. His hand was so warm, Akechi remembers noticing -- so much warmer than his own. Akechi remembers his heart fluttering against his sternum, like a fledgling bird’s first flight.

Time slows as he bears down on the trigger.

( _Say something_ , begs the voice in his head, and Akechi can’t tell if it’s talking to Akira or to him. _Say something!_ )

But there’s nothing to say.

Akechi fires.

His silencer is on but the shot is loud, too loud, _deafeningly_ loud. It’s so loud that Akechi can’t hear anything else, not his own breath or the beat of his heart or the shallow ragged gasping emanating from the boy -- _not_ boy, _meat_ , dead meat -- from the _body_ in front of him. Akechi can’t see the wound, hiding behind the mop of messy curls that flop over Akira’s forehead--

(-- _Akira did Akechi’s hair like that once; he reached across the table and ruffled his hair as though that were something normal, as though they were friends, as though Akechi was an ordinary teenager, and Akechi froze with Akira’s nails on his scalp, with Akira’s fingers in his hair, too surprised to push him away--_ )

\--but he _can_ see a shock of fresh scarlet slipping from the hole, slithering down Akira’s pretty face like a worm, fat and slick as a leech. Akira’s head begins to slump forward, and Akechi has been pretending to be good for so long that he nearly reaches out to catch him -- but of course he can’t do that. Instead he watches Akira’s face hit the desk with a horrible crunching _splat_ , shattered bone shards grinding together and loosing a spray of hot crimson.

Akechi did it. He won.

“I win,” he says to -- to himself, as though trying it on for size. “I won.”

He has to move fast; he needs to put the gun in Akira’s hand before death stiffens his fingers.

Even through his gloves, Akechi can feel the warmth of him. Of course Akira’s hands would still be warm. Even in _death_ , Akira is more alive than he is. Akechi is a wooden boy, a pretty puppet, yours for the right price. Akechi’s insides rotted away years ago, leaving them black and porous and spiderwebbed with threads of grey-green mold. When Akechi’s cut he doesn’t even bleed. Not like Akira. Akira has so much blood.

 _Had_ , one of the voices in his head corrects, and Akechi nods his agreement. That’s right. Akira _had_ so much blood. Akira doesn’t have anything anymore.

“I win,” he says again. Akechi stretches the corners of his mouth, pulls them upward: a pretty smile for a pretty puppet.

There’s nothing left for him here. His job is done.

Akechi closes the door behind him. He walks down the hall. He whistles to himself, idly. He smiles. His heart doesn’t lurch, and his hands don’t tremble. He’s a wooden boy, and always was.

Akechi doesn’t feel anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wanna give me a prompt for a oneshot? hmu on twitter, @dirtbagtrashcat !


	3. jazz jin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akechi invites Akira to his favorite jazz club.

Kurusu-kun might be the leader of the Phantom Thieves, or he might be no one at all. At this point, Akechi’s not sure which one he’d prefer.

From the moment they met, Akechi had a feeling about him -- a rush of intuition so potent it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up straight. Looking at Kurusu was like shining a flashlight into a shadowy alleyway and seeing the gleam of twin embers in the dark: the tapetum lucidum of some long-forgotten predator. Staring into Kurusu’s black eyes, for the first time in a long time, Akechi felt like _prey_.

Akechi didn’t get as far as he is in this business by ignoring his hunches. He got the boy’s contact information and squirreled it away for further investigation.

The first time he invited Kurusu out, Akechi felt faintly sheepish about it. Suppose that his hunch had misfired? Not that it was _wrong_ , per se; his intuition was rarely wrong. But suppose that he’d picked up on something else, unrelated to the Metaverse entirely -- a well-hidden propensity for violence, or something of that ilk? The boy did have a criminal record, and for assault, no less. Wouldn’t it be embarrassing if Akechi wasted his time on a frivolous social outing, only to find that Kurusu was an ordinary schoolboy?

Still. Akechi may be playing to Kurusu’s ego to keep him in arms’ reach, but he can’t deny that there’s a seed of truth at the heart of all of his flattery. Kurusu is genuinely intriguing. He’s sharp, for all his naivete; and he’s charming, sort of, when one squints at him in the right light. Most importantly, he occasionally manages to _surprise_ Akechi. Akechi isn’t sure if he likes the experience or loathes it, but it’s certainly novel.

As the days go by, Akechi sometimes catches himself _hoping_ that Kurusu is innocent, after all. It’s not altogether unpleasant, having a casual acquaintance like this. It would be awfully inconvenient if Akechi had to kill him.

“Here are your drinks,” Munen-san tells them, placing two luridly purple glasses on the table between them. “Enjoy.”

Kurusu shoots the man a grateful smile. Akechi nods languidly.

“Looks like it’s starting,” he observes, watching Kurusu through the corner of his eye as a performer approaches the stage.

Then the music starts, and Akechi’s eyes close.

There are not many things that Akechi loves, but Akechi _loves_ jazz. It’s the speed -- that eager, hungry clip -- and the unpredictability; the way it refuses to be pinned down. Every time you think you’ve found the pattern, the melody twists in a new direction. It takes all of Akechi's attention just to keep up. When he really focuses on the music, the gleaming tangle of gears ever-turning in Akechi's mind finally grinds to a halt, allowing him an all-too-rare breath of peace.

##

Akira’s not sure what he expected, but it wasn’t this.

He’d sort of assumed that the jazz club was another of Akechi’s little mind games -- a way to show off how _sophisticated_ and _grown-up_ he was. But when the music starts, Akechi’s eyes close, and his face smooths, taking on a softness that Akira’s never seen in him before. Usually, Akechi is like a beautiful house built out of a thousand tiny needles: like one wrong word could send the whole thing tumbling down, mutilating the poor bastard who dared to misstep in his presence. Usually, Akira gets the feeling that every word out of Akechi’s mouth is a test, or a game, or a trap -- like Akechi’s just waiting for him to say the wrong thing so he can go for the kill.

Right now, though, Akechi’s not even looking at him. He’s just -- listening.

“Ahh,” he breathes, when the music stops. “How relaxing. I really do like coming here.”

Akechi’s bangs shadow his eyes, but his mouth is still marked by that heartbreaking softness; his jaw loose and relaxed.

Akira wonders what Akechi would do if he kissed him. It would be easy. If he only leaned forward a few inches, Akira could brush a stray lock of Akechi's soft hair back from his eyes and pull him in close; Akechi's bright caramel eyes would snap open with shock before he leaned in, met Akira's mouth with his own. Would he be tender? No, Akira answers easily. _Tender_ isn’t in Akechi's vocabulary. He would kiss hungrily -- cruelly, even -- and when Akechi’s eyes flew open again, they'd be bright with mirth. _You never cease to surprise me, Kurusu-kun_.

“It’s a great place,” Akira says, instead.

"I'm glad to hear you say that," Akechi says, smiling that funny smile of his -- equal parts artifice and genuine warmth -- and Akira feels a rush of relief to have said the right thing. "Work and obligations take me to quite a few restaurants and cafes, but this place is a little more special to me. I suppose you could call it my go-to place. Do you have anywhere like that, Kurusu-kun?"

Akira thinks about it and snorts.

“Yeah,” he says wryly. “I live there, actually.”

Akechi shoots him a look.

“I’m not sure that your _home_ qualifies as--”

“It’s not my home,” Akira cuts in, shaking his head. “It’s just, uh -- somewhere I’m staying.”

Akechi’s head tilts.

“What do you mean by that?”

In normal circumstances, Akira avoids this question. He wouldn’t lie outright -- he rarely does, unless he has to, in which case he’s very good at it. Instead, he’d brush it off with a joke, or deftly change the subject.

But Akechi is listening raptly, at ease in a way that Akira’s never seen before; and if Akira lies, Akechi’s mouth will tighten, and his eyes will harden, and Akira isn’t sure that he could bear that.

“I’m living above a stranger’s cafe,” he answers. “I’m from a small town originally, but I got arrested, so my school kicked out. Shujin’s the only place that would have me.”

Akechi blinks at him, his mouth an ‘o’ of surprise.

“So you came to Tokyo on your own?” he asks.

Akira nods.

“And you’re living with a stranger? Above a _coffeeshop_?”

“They make curry, too,” Akira tells him, feeling sheepish.

“Impressive,” Akechi murmurs, and Akira feels that little thrill of pleasure that always follows one of Akechi’s compliments, even the really transparently false ones. “It’s like something out of a story.”

Akira shrugs.

“I have to say, I’m envious,” Akechi says, to Akira’s surprise. Usually when he tells people this story, they get all pitying and sore about it; or else they get uncomfortable and change the subject. Only a handful of people know why Akira ended up in Tokyo, and none of them considered his circumstances _enviable_. Akira finds himself wondering what Akechi’s life has looked like. It must have been pretty grim, to make “cast out of your home and thrown into a stranger’s attic” sound appealing.

He opens his mouth to ask, but Akechi is already talking again.

"You must be quite well-stocked on coffee and curry," he observes lightly, startling another snort out of Akira. “I live alone myself, but I rarely have the time to cook my own meals…”

Akira’s eyes narrow. A bright, promising kid like Akechi, living alone?

“Why--” he starts to ask.

“That reminds me,” Akechi goes on, unwavering, as though he didn’t hear him. Perhaps he really didn’t. “Do you cook, Kurusu-kun?”

Akira wonders quietly if this is how _his_ friends feel when they hang out with him. Normally it’s Akira who leaves knowing vastly more about his companion, while he gives nothing away. Is Akechi investigating him, or could he really just be interested? Has anyone ever just been _interested_ in Akira?

“Pretty frequently,” he confesses, flicking a sideways glance at the Prince. Akechi is watching him with an expression of intrigue that looks to be at least 60% genuine.

“Wow,” he purrs. “That’s impressive. I don’t have much experience myself.”

Akira tries and fails to hide his smirk. Still… Does Akechi like him, or doesn’t he? Is he investigating him, or are they flirting? Akira doesn’t know _which_ way is up, and he’s not sure he likes it. (No, that’s a lie. He definitely likes it.)

They make small talk for a little while, about culinary successes (Akira’s) and failures (Akechi’s), until Akechi straightens up and turns to face him directly.

"You know, you're the first person I've ever brought here," he says, in the same crisp, clipped tone as ever: not flattering him, just stating a fact. "It's not as though I was keeping it a secret, but..." The silence lingers, gestures toward something large and unseen, swimming just under the surface. Then, when Akira starts to feel light-headed from suspense: "I suppose it just shows that we do share some strange connection."

Akira blinks at him.

 _Now’s your chance_ , he tells himself. _If you’re going to close the gap -- if you’re going to reach out and touch him; lean in close enough to smell the lies on his breath, and closer still -- then do it now._

“I--” he starts to say.

“Oh, but look at the time,” Akechi cuts in crisply. “It’s gotten late. I’ll see you next time, Kurusu-kun.”

And he’s gone.

Akira’s _pretty_ sure Akechi likes him. The Prince’s hand on his arm always lingers just a moment too long; and surely Akechi doesn’t tell _everyone_ how intriguing they are eight times in an hour. But Akira also knows that Akechi never says anything without a reason.

No, that’s not entirely true. Once or twice, Akira’s seen Akechi just -- talk, without agenda; seemingly without any control. But he gets this look afterwards: like he’s digging his own grave, and each incautious word that slips from his mouth only mires him deeper in the dirt.

Maybe Akira’s kidding himself, and Akechi really is just playing him, like Morgana thinks. How would he ever know? Akira’s perceptive, but he’s not a mind-reader. And he’s never met someone as intricately layered -- as deeply at odds with himself as Akechi. Maybe he’s finally met his match.

Before he can walk into Leblanc, Akira’s phone buzzes. He picks up on the first ring.

“Kurusu-kun.” The Prince’s voice is breathy in his ear. “I wanted to thank you for today.”

Akechi waxes on for a while about the subtle artistry of jazz -- its curious opacity; its unapologetic inaccessibility; its contrarian insistence on striking out in the opposite direction that you expected. Akira’s smile gets wider with every word. He can see Akechi in his mind’s eye: flushed with enthusiasm, clasping and unclasping his fingers in that way he does when his passion briefly outpaces his decorum.

“Ah--” Akechi interrupts himself, as though he just caught himself in the compromising position of having expressed genuine enthusiasm. “My apologies, Kurusu-kun,” he says contritely. “In the heat of the moment, perhaps I got -- a bit carried away. I hope you won’t think ill of me.”

“No,” Akira tells him, softly. “I think I kind of get it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @narrativef0ils for this fun cozy prompt! If you wanna put in a request, hmu on twitter.


	4. going down?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Don't get any ideas -- this chapter is about an elevator.)
> 
> After meeting an intriguing stranger at a TV shoot, Detective Prince Goro Akechi gets stuck in an elevator.

Akechi’s intuition has never steered him wrong, and when he approaches the dark-eyed, soft-spoken boy from the audience, he can feel alarm bells clanging against the walls of his skull. Of course he gets the boy’s number. It’s the first “lead” he’s found in weeks.

He toys with him, too, of course. How else is he supposed to learn just what sort of person this Kurusu is? Akechi emasculates him with his superior intellect; and he goads him, just a bit, by deriding Kurusu’s precious Phantom Thieves. He’s almost impressed when the boy bites back.

“They wouldn’t run,” Kurusu tells him flatly, after Akechi suggests otherwise. His voice is as quiet as before, but it hides a steely conviction that nearly rivals Akechi’s own. Despite himself, Akechi raises an eyebrow.

“You really are intriguing,” he says, and he’s surprised to find that he might actually mean it. “I bet you'd make for a worthwhile debate partner on the subject. If it's all right with you,” he adds, thrusting out his hand to shake, “would you continue sharing your thoughts with me?"

Akechi shakes hands with his dominant hand, his left. He does it to knock people off guard -- to unbalance them, making them that much easier to control. Usually his handshake will garner a flash of disorientation on his victim’s face, or at the very least, a quirk of an eyebrow.

Kurusu doesn’t even blink. He holds out his left arm and clasps Akechi’s hand in his own.

"I'd love to," he says quietly, with a barely-discernible note of challenge in his tone. The shock of it nearly startles an unbecoming grin out of Akechi. But Tokyo’s Detective Prince won’t be so easily undone. Akechi bites his tongue and stills his jaw by force.

"Thank you," he says smoothly. "That's great news." And then, in an upswell of competitive spirit, he matches Kurusu’s candor with a small truth of his own: “I sense something in you that's quite different from other people," he says impulsively. “I suppose you could call it my… detective’s intuition?”

Kurusu stares hard at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then the moment passes, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Akechi flushes and looks away. He’s said too much.

“Haha,” he adds hastily. “Just kidding, of course.”

Akechi hadn’t noticed how long their handshake had lingered until Kurusu drops his hand. Under his glove, his palm is embarrassingly sweaty.

“Ah,” he says. “Ah… I suppose we should exchange contact info.” And finally, with a graceful little half bow: “I hope to see you again sometime, Kurusu-kun.”

“See you around,” Kurusu says quietly, and Akechi turns crisply away.

He’ll need some time to process what’s happened before he knows what to think of his new (and only) suspect. How will he move forward in this investigation? He’ll have to earn Kurusu’s trust before he can hope to learn his secrets… Akechi makes a mental note to research what adolescents do for fun.

He’s only walked a few paces before he realizes that Kurusu is still with him: lurking just over his left shoulder, silent as a shadow.

“Ah,” he says uncertainly. Kurusu’s mouth bows upward into another of those odd, secretive smiles. Akechi doesn’t like it. It makes Kurusu look like he knows something that Akechi doesn’t.

“Headed to the elevator?” Kurusu asks, in a voice so low and rough that Akechi nearly blushes again.

“Ah -- yes,” he says foolishly, before it occurs to him to make some other excuse. _Apologies, but I must stop by my dressing room first. If you’ll excuse me, Kurusu-kun_. “I thought you were awaiting your companions?” he asks, in an effort to recover the high ground. “The, ah -- yellow-haired gentleman and the young lady that accompanied you in the hallway?”

Kurusu smirks, and Akechi feels violence rise in his gut, hot and sour as fresh bile. Is this unkempt, disheveled schoolboy _laughing_ at him?

“Yeah, I was going to,” Kurusu tells him. “But I thought you might appreciate the company. You seemed lonely.”

Akechi is a shapeshifter, a master of deception. Still, it takes every ounce of his discipline not to snarl at the boy.

“My goodness!” he exclaims blandly, flashing a disarming smile over his shoulder. “Perhaps I ought to seek out more media training before my next interview, if that’s the impression I gave off. You mistake me, Kurusu-kun. I am far too busy to feel lonely.”

“It wasn’t from the interview,” Kurusu says, eyes half-lidded. “I was just surprised when you approached me after. Thought maybe you were looking for a friend.”

 _Looking for a friend_? What is this, grade school?

Akechi had “friends” before, as a boy: a gaggle of kids his age whom he played against each other for his amusement. With each turn of the seasons, he built them up and broke them down and built them up again, in order to develop his comprehension of the human breaking point. It always seemed to come so much sooner than he expected.

Akechi’s games could never be traced back to their source — even as a child, Akechi covered his tracks — but somehow, like dogs, the boys seemed to gain an instinctive understanding of the forces at play. One by one, they pulled away from him, closing their ranks and whispering superstitious drivel about bad karma and bad luck, until at last he was alone again. Akechi liked it better that way, anyway.

“Well,” Akechi says, smiling through his teeth. “I’m afraid that your concern is misplaced. I thank you for your kindness, but it so happens that I’m quite thoroughly fulfilled, socially speaking.”

“Glad to hear it,” Kurusu tells him comfortably, as they arrive at the elevator.

After watching Kurusu push the call button, Akechi briefly considers making some excuse to beat a tactical retreat. _Ah, how foolish! I forgot my briefcase in my dressing room,_ or maybe _goodness, I’ve missed a call from the director; I must pay him a visit before I depart_. But Kurusu has already shown himself to be unpredictable. Akechi can’t dismiss the possibility that Kurusu would simply _follow_ him, and in the process, catch him in an outright lie. He can’t afford the risk. Besides, they’re only on the fourteenth floor. How long could the trip last, in all? Thirty seconds? Twenty?

The elevator dings.

“After you,” Akechi says graciously. Kurusu gives him an ironic little bow, and Akechi steps in after him.

The doors slide shut.

In the corner of his eye, Akechi watches Kurusu. He’s well-spoken enough, but he stands like a _delinquent_ : shoulders hunched and spine bent forward, a chiropractor’s worst nightmare. As Akechi looks him up and down, Kurusu’s attention darts suddenly toward him, catching him in the act. Instead of raising an accusatory eyebrow, Kurusu _smiles_ : a conspiratorial quirk of his lips, without a trace of derision. Akechi flushes and looks away.

“I--” he starts to say, in an effort to shatter the tension--

\--and then with a terrible grind of metal-on-metal, the entire elevator _lurches_ , shuddering hard enough to knock Akechi off-balance entirely. He stumbles forward, flings his arms out -- and is startled to find himself held up by the unwavering solidity of Kurusu-kun, who didn’t lose his footing for an instant; who even now stands comfortably with his knees slightly bent and both arms flung outward, pinning Akechi to the spot.

“ _Don’t touch me_ ,” Akechi spits, before he can stop himself, and then freezes rigid. “That is -- I mean to say--”

“Sorry,” Kurusu says easily, dropping his arms and taking a step back. “Are you okay?”

Akechi takes a breath, tightens his mask.

“Of course,” he says cordially, his voice dripping with false courtesy. “Thank you for your consideration, Kurusu-kun. I appreciate--”

The floor lurches again. This time Akechi is ready for it -- he drops his center of gravity, grits his teeth, and rides it out.

After one last grinding screech, the elevator stops short. The _hiss_ of the air conditioning goes silent, and the room goes dark. The only light in the space emanates from the panel of buttons next to the sliding door, where L for Lobby still glows a milky white.

“Ah,” Akechi says blankly, and then (on the off-chance that Kurusu can see him through this damnable murk) remembers to put on his smile. “What do you think--”

The callbox hisses, and a tinny, digitized voice crackles into the space.

“Is anyone in there?” it asks.

“Ah -- yes!” Akechi calls back, only slightly shrilly.

“You have to hold the talk button,” Kurusu tells him quietly. Akechi starts to shoot a glare over his shoulder, and manages to turn it into a gracious smile.

“Thank you, Kurusu-kun. Of course.” He presses the button and tries again. “Yes, there are two of us here. What seems to be the matter?”

“Technical difficulties,” the voice crackles back. With his face shielded by the wall and shrouded in darkness, Akechi is safe to roll his eyes to his heart’s content. “Just a small quake, but it shook the belt off its track. We’re sending our guys down the shaft to fix it right now. What’s your name, son? Is there anyone else there with you?”

“Goro Akechi,” Akechi tells him tersely, and is gratified to hear the elevator tech swear nervously under his breath. “Along with Akira Kurusu, a student on a class trip.”

“We’re so sorry for the inconvenience, Akechi-kun,” the guy tells him anxiously. Akechi takes note of the familiar _kun_ , makes a mental note to get this man fired.

“Not at all,” he says courteously. “But I am growing increasingly late for an urgent appointment with the SIU. How long do you expect this to take?”

“Oh, not-- _chhh--crckle_ \--or so. Twenty, at most.”

“I’m sorry, did you--”

There’s distant shouting on the other end of the callbox.

“So sorry, Akechi-kun,” the man says, “I have to handle this. Don’t be afraid! We’ll have you out of there as soon as we can.”

“I’m not--” Akechi starts to hiss back, but the static has already cut off, plunging the elevator into silence.

Akechi takes a breath. He lets it out. He takes another, and lets it out. Then he turns.

“Looks like we’ve been given an opportunity to get to know each other a little better,” he says brightly, through a mouthful of glass. “Isn’t that right, Kurusu-kun?”

He can barely see Kurusu in the dark. Akechi whips his phone out of his pocket, turns the glow of its screen toward the center of the room. When he finally finds Kurusu’s eyes, he’s incensed to find the other boy watching him with undisguised concern. Does Kurusu think him weak?

“Are you okay?” Kurusu asks, and Akechi has to bite off another growl.

“Of course!” he says crisply. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason,” Kurusu tells him, shrugging. Akechi grits his teeth behind his lips. If he has to tolerate this much longer, he’ll grind his teeth to powder.

“I wonder if there’s a control panel somewhere,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “If we could wire the doors to open, we could slip out between floors and simply take the stairs to--”

“Do you mind if I take my shirt off?”

“ _Excuse me_?” Akechi hisses, fists clenched and knuckles white.

“The AC turned off,” Kurusu says innocently. “And it’s dark, anyway. Aren’t you hot?”

“Of course not,” says Akechi, who’s sweating through his shirt. “I -- You -- Do what you will. _I_ must tend to my affairs. The SIU does not tolerate _tardiness_.”

But his phone doesn’t get any service, of course. Akechi bites his tongue till it bleeds. In the corner of his eye, by the faint light of his phone, he can see Kurusu stripping off his Shujin-issued white polo, revealing a startlingly sinewy physique. The boy is built like a jungle cat, all smooth skin and lean cords of muscle.

Akechi tears his gaze away and focuses on his breathing.

Kurusu was right about one thing. It’s _intolerably_ hot. Akechi can feel his head growing hazy, dulling his mind and cloaking his senses in a thick, viscous fog. His breath comes in short and shallow. His heart thuds in his chest, so quick and sharp and urgent that he can feel his pulse in his toes. The fingers of his gloves are swollen sacks of sweat -- or maybe it’s his fingers that are swollen, bloated fat with his own blood.

“Hey,” Kurusu says softly. “Sit down.”

“I--”

“Please,” Kurusu says, so nakedly hopeful that Akechi feels his legs folding under him, his weight sagging to the floor.

Breathlessly: “Why do you--”

“Let’s play a game,” Kurusu tells him. Invisible in the dark, choking on his own shallow breath, Akechi levels a glare of unfettered, double-barreled fury at him.

“Are you _simple_? Do you--” Through sheer force of will, he chokes off that particular line of inquiry. “Ah,” he says, grasping for his usual decorum, “I mean to say--”

“It’s okay,” Kurusu says. Even in the dark, Akechi can see his smile. “Yeah. I guess I might be simple.”

Akechi gapes at him.

“Will you play with me?” Kurusu asks, undeterred. Akechi huffs air through his nose, as irritated as he is intrigued.

“Fine,” he says, relenting. “What would you have me do?”

“Two truths and a lie,” Kurusu says. That note of challenge is back in his voice. “They have to be real truths, though,” he adds. “I’ll know if you lie.”

Akechi sneers. No one has _ever_ known when he lied.

“All right,” he says silkily. “If you go first.”

Kurusu nods.

“Okay,” he says thoughtfully. “Um… My entire school hates me. The first friend I made in Tokyo was a cat. And…” he hesitates, and then seems to gather his resolve. “And I don’t think you got my number because you find me intriguing,” he finishes. “I think you have an ulterior motive.”

Akechi does not often find himself at a loss for words, but right now, he’s speechless.

“You don’t,” he echoes dumbly, after a moment’s panic. “Or -- rather, ah… What do you _mean_ , an ulterior motive?”

Akechi can see the faint glow of the elevator button gleam off of Kurusu’s white teeth.

“How do you know that one’s not the lie?” he asks cheekily. Akechi glares at him, his racing heart receding into the background.

“Well, is it?” he snaps. Kurusu’s smile widens.

“That’s not how the game works,” he says. “You have to guess.”

Akechi bares his teeth.

“Fine,” he hisses. “Well. I _would_ have guessed the one about your school, given that we’re not far into the academic year, but I find it increasingly easy to believe that you could incense an entire student body in a matter of weeks.”

Kurusu chuckles: a low, pleasing rumble of sound that Akechi can feel in his chest.

“And it’s equally easy to believe that you’d be more popular among felines than humans,” Akechi continues, somewhat snootily. “So I -- I choose your third option. The--” For reasons unknown to him, Akechi’s heart flutters. “The one about me,” he says, pointedly ignoring his body’s bizarre physiological display.

“Wrong,” Kurusu says quietly.

“Wrong?” Akechi echoes. Kurusu smiles.

“The _second_ friend I made in Tokyo was a cat,” he says coolly. Then he leans in, closing the distance between their faces.

In the dark of the elevator, Kurusu’s black irises swallow his pupils, turning his eyes to twin pools of ink. Akechi feels a brief, inexplicable fit of vertigo -- the same feeling he gets when he stands at the edge of a rooftop, and thinks about how easy it would be to step over the edge.

“You lose,” Kurusu growls. “Your turn.”

Akechi takes a breath--

\--and with a sputtering, crinkling hiss of white noise, the lights flick back on.

“Akechi-kun!” says the voice from before, crackling from the callbox. “Still okay in there?”

Akechi scrambles to his feet, looking anywhere except at Kurusu’s bare chest.

“We’re fine,” he says hastily, his heart pounding. “Ah-- Did you get the lift working?”

“That’s right!” the voice announces, even as the elevator hums to life. “Again, we’re _so_ sorry for the inconvenience. Director Yoshizawa-san says that he’ll gladly treat you to a meal to make up for it.”

“Tell him not to trouble himself,” Akechi says grandly, as his racing heart slows. “Thank you for your service.”

When he swings around again, Kurusu is dressed and standing, wearing an expression of wry bemusement.

“It was nice meeting you, Detective-san,” he says, perfectly sincerely; and then ruins the effect with another of those intolerable smirks. “I look forward to our next discussion.”

“Ah,” Akechi says dizzily. The doors behind him fly open, and he hurls himself bodily through them. “I mean,” he mutters. “Ah -- the same to you, Kurusu-kun. I’m, ah -- I must be going, I’m--”

“Akira!” a shrill voice calls from the hallway before them, and “Leader!” shouts a gruff one; and the two blondes from earlier fling themselves toward Kurusu. _Leader?_ Akechi thinks curiously, and makes a note of it.

“Excuse me,” he mutters, in the general direction of his feet. He offers Kurusu another polite little bow, and without looking back, Akechi bolts for the exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> morgana, hiding in akira's bag for this entire chapter: "?????????"
> 
> thanks to my pal HeavyMoons for what may be my favorite prompt ever, and I hope you enjoyed this (only slightly canon-divergent) riff on Rank 1! If you wanna put in a request, hmu on twitter.


	5. unlikely harmonies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akira and Akechi chat about music.

God, but Kurusu is infuriating.

Before Akechi ever indulged any suspicions about which lanky, scruffy rivals may or may not be Phantom Thieves — back when he’d considered the boy’s company to be an idle curiosity, or (at most) a proving ground where Akechi could test his strength — even then, Kurusu was infuriating.

Akechi would never show it. He’s a professional, for heaven’s sake. Akechi has been concealing his emotions for longer than most people have been aware that they _had_ emotions. The first time he lied about his feelings, he was three, and his gaunt, tearstained mother asked him if he was ever going to be okay. (“Of course I’m okay,” he told her. “Don’t cry, mom, I’m fine.”)

His dislike for the dark-haired boy grew exponentially over the course of their — hm. Not _friendship_ exactly. Calling it a rivalry seems childish, but if the shoe fits, who is he to kick it off?

At first, entertaining Kurusu had been something of a private joke for Akechi. Kurusu had come straight at him — spoke to him with unchecked aggression, and on live television, no less. At the time, a rather tickled Akechi concluded that such unearned audacity deserved a reward. As the two passed time together, he even began to wonder if perhaps they could share a _friendship_ of sorts; or as close to a friendship as a hollow man like Akechi could ever hope to achieve.

Which was all well and good, but Akechi would have to kill him soon. It wasn’t prudent to pass one’s time in the company of one’s intended murder victims. It left the potential for a paper trail, and besides, it was just bad manners.

“Do you play an instrument?” Kurusu asks, leaning over the counter of Leblanc and stretching languidly. Akechi peers up at him, surprised.

“No,” he answers crisply, after a moment’s pause. “I suppose I never had anyone to cultivate that sort of a practice, as a child. Do you?”

“Not really,” Kurusu confesses. “I was one of those kids who tried a different instrument every year, but I never applied myself, and no one ever -- I mean, it’s not like anyone would care if I gave up. You know?”

“I do,” Akechi says gravely.

When he puts down his spoon, Akira can see a smudge of curry sticking to the corner of his mouth. What would Akechi do if Akira reached out and wiped it away? Would he blush before he swatted Akira’s hand away?

Akira can feel the tips of his ears getting hot.

 _God_ , but Akechi is cute.

Even after Akira confirmed, without a shadow of a doubt, that Akechi is going to kill him — even knowing full well what Akechi has in store for him, Akira can’t help but squirm with pleasure when he arrives home to find the detective perched behind the counter, his pretty, pointed nose tucked into some needlessly erudite book. Akira’s guts turn to string cheese when Akechi welcomes him home. _What kind of Phantom Thief lusts after his own murderer?_ he asks himself some nights, before drifting off to sleep. _Freud would have a field day._

Akira has got it bad, but he’d never show it, of course. He’d rather die than make Akechi uncomfortable. Akira has been shielding his peers from his feelings for longer than most people have been aware that they _had_ feelings — since the first time his friends asked him if he’d be lonely spending Christmas alone, and he told them that he’d be great; that he liked it better that way anyway.

His fondness for the meticulously controlled, profoundly lonely detective grew exponentially over the course of their — hm. Friendship isn’t really the right word; it implies a mutual trust that Akira can’t really claim, not when Akechi is going to shoot him in a few short weeks. _Courtship_ , maybe? It’s audacious, but Akira feels that he’s earned a little audacity, after swallowing so much of Akechi’s bullshit.

Akira sighs. It doesn’t help that Akechi seems to think of him as some kind of contemptible animal — a pitiable if not-entirely-unlikeable stray. It _certainly_ doesn’t help that Akira makes a game of needling him, chasing the right combination of words that will crack the Prince’s decorum; bring a flush of pink to his cheeks. Akira doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy as he is when he manages to startle a genuine laugh out of Akechi: not the courtly, performative chuckle he wears on TV but a _real_ laugh, that snuffling little snort that bubbles from the back of his throat before Akechi remembers himself and swallows it.

“Did you ever want to?” he asks, to distract himself from his own self-indulgence. “Play an instrument, I mean?”

Akechi purses his lips.

“I suppose that I always had more pressing priorities,” he says thoughtfully. “I was rather occupied working to fulfill the _first_ few rungs of Maslow’s hierarchy, which left me little time to trifle with the arts. Why do you ask?” he inquires. And then, with a wry gleam that goes through Akira’s guts like a cheese grater: “You’re not looking to start a band, are you? I’d have thought you’d be too busy for any more _nighttime activities_.”

“No,” Akira snorts. “I just…” _always want to know more about you. Got a little too invested in a particularly pathetic fantasy where you teach me to play guitar, and absolutely let me have it when I fuck up a chord. Love the idea of you having something,_ anything _in your life that you actually enjoy_. “I was just curious,” he says.

Akechi puts down his book and gives Akira a look that says that he can see right through him; can hear every contemptible word that Akira doesn’t say.

“What sort of music do you listen to, Kurusu-kun?” he asks.

“Oh, a little of everything,” Akira says, both honestly and evasively. Akechi gives him a pointed glare.

“A little of everything,” he repeats, only faintly mockingly. “So I’ll just type that into Spotify, shall I?”

“Oh,” Akira says, startled, “you’re — you want, like, a recommendation?”

“I believe that I was quite clear about that, yes.”

Akira grins, disbelieving. He knows that Akechi’s only being friendly because he’s trying to win Akira’s trust, to make him easier to kill. Still. He doesn’t hate the idea of Akechi listening to a song and thinking of him. Maybe he’ll listen to it after he blows a bleeding hole through Akira’s cognitive fake. Maybe he’ll even _cry_. (No, he’s kidding himself again again. Akira knows full well that Akechi doesn’t cry.)

“Um… It’s not exactly original, but… I guess I’m listening to a lot of Mitski right now,” Akira tells him, sheepish. “I’ll send you a link, if you’d like.”

“I would very much like that,” Akechi says smoothly, sending another shameful little flutter through Akira.

Akechi returns home to an email from Kurusu.

When he [opens the link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qooWnw5rEcI), he’s not quite sure what to think. Is it some kind of joke? Is Kurusu mocking him? But that’s impossible, of course. No one knows how desperately alone Akechi is, and has always been.

Akira’s music is a bit coarse for Akechi, heavy on the synthesizers and featuring more crashing chords than Akechi is used to. Still. There’s no harm in doing a little research. It’s a character study, really — a rare window into Akira’s typically-opaque psyche. Akechi listens to the rest of the album before he goes to sleep.

Then he listens to it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeesh sorry yall this is not my best work because i am an infinitely ignorant fool when it comes to music, but i tried my best!
> 
> prompt was "how about some banter re: taste in music" ! hmu on twitter to make a request of your own

**Author's Note:**

> If you’ve ever wanted to read some super specific scene but didn't wanna take the time to write it, now’s your chance! I'm writing fanfic based on prompts from readers like you to encourage support for BLM. If you're interested, hit me up on twitter with your desired premise & your fave ship/character dynamic/whatever you wanna read! I'm @dirtbagtrashcat there, same as here. Full disclosure, they won't all be as long as this one (unless I get carried away again (which is likely)).


End file.
